


So Long To Devotion

by l_cloudy



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Box of Chains, Captivity, M/M, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 02:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13672143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/pseuds/l_cloudy
Summary: Early on, before days and weeks all started blending together in a neverending haze, Poe had feared  Ren’s touch.





	So Long To Devotion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



“Touch me,” Poe said. He was half fallen, half kneeling on the cold metal floor. His face was streaked with come and his body felt heavy. It ached with the echo of all sorts of touches, that were Force-made and immaterial, and nothing like what he wanted. Ren, having dispensed with his prisoner, was all the way across the room. Poe watched Ren, and felt his own body shake violently.

“Please,” he said. It would be easier – it would be so easy, for both of them, if only Ren were _kind_.

Early on, before days and weeks all started blending together in a neverending haze, Poe had feared Ren’s touches. They came unexpectedly, feather-light. Ren liked to use the Force whenever he could and he liked to take relentlessly, but sometimes he would take off his black gloves, and put his hands on Poe’s body.

There would be caresses to soothe reddened skin, long fingers wiping away tears, trailing through his damp curls. In the beginning, it made him shiver. Part of him wanted the touches, even then, and Poe had been afraid of wanting, thinking it would break him that much faster.

I am a prisoner, he wanted to scream, with whatever energy he had left. Treat me like one.

Now he shivered, still, in a different way.

He needed so much more than what Ren would allow him. Ren lacked the patience, the method, the skilled manipulation that took to turn an enemy into a conquered shell, like those Imperial Interrogators he’d heard about in whispers. Ren was mercurial and capricious, wild and unpredictable. He entertained himself with Poe like a child playing with a favourite toy, moody and erratically. He would try new tricks, put his sophisticated knowledge of Poe’s body and mind to good use, then predictably become bored and turn back to easier pursuits: invisible fingers in Poe’s mouth, empty pressure inside of him, rough phantom shoves that had somehow started to become acutely familiar.

Poe closed his eyes, then, and wished it were Ren’s hands on him, Ren’s mouth or even Ren’s cock, instead of something intangible that was not real. But he wasn’t worth any of that.

“Please,” said Poe, again, and he saw Ren’s dark figure move closer, heard the sound of heavy robes and booted feet on polished durasteel.

Ren came to kneel next to Poe’s crumpled figure. Poe knew better than to reach out, for all that he badly wanted to; Ren inclined his head and stared.

Ren, Poe knew, was too unpredictable a creature to understand his rational, measured surrender. The realization had come some time into his captivity, when Poe’s tepid hope of rescue had shattered utterly: Ren, obsessed as he was, would not kill him, and nobody would come for him. He wouldn’t leave, not ever.

He cried that night. Ren, who was in a good mood, kissed the tears away. Poe tasted metallic fear in the back of his throat as he laid there, still, because it was easier to remain in that suffocating embrace than to fight back. For the first time, he thought: it would be so much easier, if he could just let it go.

And then: it would be simple to surrender, if Ren could give him – anything. Something to lose himself to. The barest scraps.

Once or twice in the beginning, Ren had him drugged with an aphrodisiac. Poe remembered writhing on the mattress, begging, tears in his eyes. He remembered his fingers ripping at Ren’s clothes, his body pressing back eagerly into the touch. He remembered coming back to himself, later, the acid taste of vomit.

He remembered feeling  pleasure, and no fear. He was tired.

Ren had gotten tired of the aphrodisiac early on, as soon as Poe had stopped sobbing violently when it wore off. Sometimes, now, Poe had to bite his tongue so that he wouldn’t ask Ren to drug him again. He wanted to want it. He wanted to lose himself in it, to cry out in need and be held, to nestle his head in Ren’s lap like a recalcitrant pet brought to heel. He wanted to feel Ren’s body on him, as he so rarely deigned to do.

That was in Poe’s fantasies. In the present, here and now, Ren slapped him.

It was an open-handed slap, not particularly vicious, but with strength behind it. Poe’s head turned with the hit. It stung.

“Touch you,” Ren said. “Like this?”

Poe’s tongue came out to dart his lips. He tasted no blood, as he might have had Ren hit a little harder. It wasn't what he wanted, but – he would take it.

And then Ren’s hand, again. It came to cup his cheek, where it’d just hit, and Poe leaned into the touch, melted into it. _Like this._ He could lie and pretend and tell himself it was all worth it, for this.

He exhaled.

“Thank you,” said Poe, a trembling breath. He closed his eyes, dreaming about forgetting. He could, easily, if he only could have this. He would be Ren’s, if only Ren would let him.


End file.
